yes eva it is indeed what u think it is. for everyone else i have this fic where charles is sort of sometimes a cat. snippet under the cut!
“Carlos.”
A beat of silence.
And then another.
“Carlos.”
Still nothing.
The silence continues.
“That’s a cat.”
“Fantastic observation.”
“Carlos. You hate cats.”
Carlos looks defensive, offended even. The kitten meows disapprovingly. If possible, he tucks it in even closer to himself. Lando stares. Carlos clears his throat. “Well I don’t hate this one.”
Lando stares a little bit more. “Where the fuck did you even get that. No, wait, when did you get that? When did this psychotic episode start?”
“Don’t you think that’s a little–“
“God, did you steal someone’s cat because you felt some sort of cosmic connection?” Lando windmills his arms in pure, undisguised confusion. “I’m just trying to understand this!”
“No,” Carlos huffs. He scratches behind the kitten’s ear and what the fuck. “But it is. Maybe. A cosmic connection.”
“What happened to Piñon?”
“I can have more than one pet,” he argues.
Lando scoffs. “Yes you can. You can have your seventy fifth dog. God! Get a puppy, Carlos. You don’t know how to take care of a cat!”
The kitten meows again. Lando did not even know that cats could have different meows. It clearly does not like him. “Can’t you be quiet for a second?” Carlos berates crossly. Lando watches with his jaw threatening to touch the floor as Carlos lays it down carefully on a towel, gently murmuring to it as he mournfully lets it go. Turning back to Lando, he sighs. “Okay. You have one minute to complain.”
So Lando does, absolutely explodes at the chance. “Where did you get a cat? Why did you get a cat? What are you going to do with a c– wait.” He frowns. “Did you get a new girlfriend?”
Infuriatingly, Carlos’ eyes dart to the CAT before he stammers out a snappy “No!”
Lando might murder this cat. And Carlos, too. But first the cat. “I’m taking your cat away,” he decides, and nearly falls on his ass when Carlos pushes him away with a surprising amount of force when he tries to make a go at the cat. Wincing, he amends, “Okay. Not taking your cat away.”
Despite everything that happened in the last five seconds, Carlos’ stupidly concerned hands are suddenly hovering all around him. “Fuck, Lando, are you okay? I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Thanks. I totally noticed,” he says, trying to stay polite. And he is, well, okay. He will survive. Nurse his wounds and ghost Carlos for a couple of days. Hopefully enough time for Carlos to get rid of the damned ball of fur. But then they will be okay. “God. I need you to start answering my que–”
Riiing!
Shit. The meeting. Oscar is going to kill him. Lando scrambles to decline the call. Muttering curses under his breath he rushes out of the stupid little room while shouting at Carlos. He also tries not to be too hurt by the fact that Carlos seemed almost relieved to see him going, the kitten already burrowing back into his hands.
Lando has to tell everyone.
-
unfortunately this is an extremely stale wip but i do hope to actually finish at least the first chapter by the end of septemeber. we will see. we will pray
The sharp rapping startled Branwen out of a comfortable doze. His library was cast now in heavy shadow, save for what little of it the light from the dying hearth could reach. There was no color along the horizon, and the night beyond his window was deep. He feared, for a moment, that he had awoken at the breaking of a second time loop, but relaxed at the sound of Calcifer milling about in the kitchen. The smell of tea roused him further. Sighing, he set the book he’d been reading aside and got shakily to his feet.
Another series of quick, almost frantic knocks sounded at the door. His ears flicked forward and then back. It hadn’t been a dream; someone, very real and very persistent, was standing on his front stoop. He couldn’t imagine who it could be at such a late hour and turned to the window once again to confirm that the capital was not in flames. As before, all was quiet and dark.
“I’ll get it!” Calcifer called.
“No,” Branwen replied as his mate hurried out into the foyer, “stay behind me.”
Calcifer raised a brow. “I’m a foot taller than you, Bran.”
“You’re also wearing a frilly pink apron,” Branwen pointed out, and before Calcifer could protest further, strode forward with only a split second’s hesitation.
On the stoop stood a dam, her figure obscured by an ashen grey cloak, and in her hands was a gently glowing glob. Even without the meager light it provided, however, Branwen would have known her. He did not need to see the silhouette of her face, her warm, dark skin, or the wisps of smoky hair poking out from beneath her hood. Her scent was enough to evoke vivid imagery in his mind of roaring flames—and the cinders they left behind. They danced before his eyes, a translucent mockery of a pain he had never quite managed to rid himself of, before flickering and dying against the bitter chill of a late spring evening.
The next thing Calcifer knew, his mate was throwing himself at their guest. He reacted swiftly, getting his arms around Branwen’s waist and hoisting the enraged Spiral up in a bear hug meant to disable him. Instead, it only incensed him further, and he shed his scaleless guise, slipping between Calcifer’s fingers like sand.
“You,” Branwen fumed, “you monster!”
“Calcifer,” the dam said, stepping back to avoid one of Brawnen’s blind swipes, “had I known you had taken a mate, I would have brought wedding gifts.”
“We aren’t—” Calcifer gripped Branwen by his tail and pulled back with a grunt— “married yet, Oya!”
All at once, Branwen’s squirming ceased. He turned in his mate’s grasp, but rather than anger, there was a misery so deep and so poignant in his eyes that Calcifer dropped him then and there. Branwen’s scales gave way to soft flesh again, and in the tiniest, most pitiful voice imaginable, he asked, “You know her, Calcifer?”
“I—I—” Calcifer’s mouth was suddenly bone dry. “Well, yes. I helped her construct a suitable home for her, ah—Ogun is a bit hard to explain, but I helped her make his hearth.”
Oya, meanwhile, was examining Branwen with renewed interest. She recognized him, though she wished she hadn’t. “You’re that hatchling,” she murmured thoughtfully, “from the Emberwood.”
The Emberwood—Calcifer knew it well. Colloquially known as the Scorched Forest, it stood on the border between the Ashfall Waste and the Shifting Expanse, not far from Emberglow Hearth. Very few clans called it home, as it provided little in the way of shelter or smithing. In fact, most of its residents were magic-workers, who found its isolated locale inviting.
“How could you not?” Branwen asked. He seemed to curl in on himself then, growing smaller with every word. “If you know her, you must know what she did.”
Calcifer reached for him, but he pulled away. “Branwen, I swear—”
“Listen to your mate,” Oya said. “Do you think I speak of my wretched work to every dragon who crosses my path? I come to him now not because we were intimately acquainted, but because, as he said, it was he who built Ogun’s hearth.”
“You came to my home,” Branwen began, his fists trembling at his sides, “the home of the drake whose clan you slaughtered, to commission my mate?!”
Oya glanced down at Branwen’s quivering hands. “Yes.”
“Go,” Branwen spat, “before I kill you.”
“I will not,” Oya replied. She did not flinch when Branwen rounded on her again. “Allow me to rephrase: I cannot.”
Before Branwen could make good on his threat, Calcifer stepped forward. “Can he survive in our hearth for a while?” he asked. “I’ll need to gather the proper supplies and dig out my old blueprints.”
“How long?”
“A week at most.”
Oya looked to the glowing glob in her hands, as if for confirmation. It pulsed once, twice, and she nodded. “A week,” she said, “no more.”
“Did you miss the part where I said she slaughtered my clan?!” Branwen asked, his rage so potent that it forced his voice up by several octaves. Typically, Calcifer would have found this amusing. Tonight, he was sweating like a pig. “I know you aren’t stupid, Calcifer! Quite the contrary, you’re meant to be the emotionally intelligent one in this relationship!”
“I’m not doing it for her, Bran,” Calcifer replied. “I’m doing it for Ogun.”
“The glob?!”
“He’s not a—” Calcifer pinched the bridge of his nose. He loved Branwen, but he was still learning how to communicate with him. “Oya,” he muttered in a tone that suggested he was struggling not to rip fistfuls of his hair out, “you can explain it better than I can.”
“Ogun is a homunculus,” Oya said with a shrug.
Branwen cast his mate an exasperated look. “You could have just told me! I know what a homunculus is!”
“I don’t!” Calcifer replied. “Whatever they are, they aren’t exactly commonplace! I’ve certainly never met one, and that’s not how Oya explained him to me!”
“I suppose I went into more detail,” Oya conceded, “seeing as I was entrusting the building of his hearth to you. All your mate needs to know is that I created him as a tool to use in my work. Yes, I see you glaring at him.” The dam’s molten gold gaze snapped up to meet Branwen’s. Neither was willing to back down. “He had no free will then. In the matter of your clan’s destruction, he is blameless.”
“He’s the figure I saw in the fire,” Branwen growled lowly. “He’s the one who enacted your will!”
“Because he could not refuse me,” Oya said again, “which I regret deeply. Over time, free will grew within him. That is why we are here. He—” She faltered, and Branwen cursed himself for feeling a pang of sympathy— “he begged me not to use him again. He knew that the Grand Circle would order us to quash Por’s rebellion. The thought of it made him sick. Perhaps it made me sick as well.”
There was more Branwen wanted to say, but for once, he bit his tongue. “I want your word that neither of you will harm myself, Calcifer, or any of our clanmates.”
“You have it.”
“If you put a single toe out of line, Dreamweaver will hear about it.”
“Of course.”
“You know Dreamweaver, don’t you? You’ve heard of them?”
“I have, and I do not wish to cross them.”
Seemingly satisfied, Branwen turned back toward the open door and motioned for the pair to follow him. “You can stay in the guest bedroom,” he said, “until you’ve secured your own housing.”
—
“So what’s all this about a clan?”
Branwen answered Calcifer’s query with a drawn-out sigh. After ensuring that both Oya and Ogun were comfortable, he had slipped away into his study for the express purpose of avoiding this very conversation. It was complicated, and he was tired. Unfortunately, Calcifer had come with a bribe. Smiling softly, the Imperial crossed to where he sat hunched over his desk and offered him a mug of piping hot tea. It had been made just the way he liked it, sweetened with sugar and honey.
Begrudgingly, he accepted the bribe.
“I thought I made myself quite clear,” he mumbled, blowing the steam from his mug and taking a quick sip. “Oya slaughtered my birth clan, every last drake, dam, and rook. Knowing that she was working for the Grand Circle puts things into perspective. We were a rebellious lot, and the Grand Circle doesn’t like rebels.”
“You told me that no one had ever loved you,” Calcifer said as he took up residence in the only other chair in the room that wasn’t piled high with books, “and that you had never loved anyone else.”
“That’s what makes it…complicated.”
Calcifer reached out to squeeze his knee. “Take it one word at a time.”
“I…” The words stuck in Branwen’s throat. It was an admittance he had promised never to utter. “I may have loved my parents, despite their many failings. When Oya came, I was still young, only a hatchling, but I was old enough to know that I was unwanted. My mother and father were rebels. They didn’t have time to raise a well-behaved hatchling, let alone one of my choleric disposition. I was a picky eater. I demanded constant attention. I was often ill. They shunted me between caretakers, whoever’s schedule was the least hectic on a given day. I was the only hatchling in our clan.”
“How did you escape?” Calcifer asked. “Someone must have loved you enough to bring you to safety.”
Branwen shook his head. “It was Oya who spared me. I remember wailing over my parents’ bodies. A shadow fell across me. I thought—” He sucked in a sharp breath— “I wanted her to kill me, but she didn’t. She told me to leave the Ashfall Waste and never return, and I obeyed.”
“I’m—I’m so sorry, Branwen.”
“Don’t be.” Branwen drained his cup in a single gulp, hoping that the heat of the tea would settle his stomach. “I can never forgive Oya for what she did, but my life there would have been a miserable one.”
“If it’s any consolation,” Calcifer said, “I’m sure your parents didn’t hate you. It sounds like you were born at an inopportune time, and they were unable to adequately care for you as such. That doesn’t mean they didn’t love you, though.”
Try as he might to suppress them, tears sprang unbidden into Branwen’s eyes. They fell into his empty cup in fat, silver drops, and Calcifer, seeing them, spread his arms in a welcoming gesture. The pair embraced. Branwen sniffled pitifully into his mate’s chest, and Calcifer ran his fingers through the witch’s wild ginger curls.
“You know I’ll never let anyone hurt you,” Calcifer whispered, “don’t you?”
Branwen nodded.
“We’re doing the right thing.”
Another nod.
“Once Ogun’s hearth is built, you’ll never have to speak to her again.” Calcifer’s grip tightened, his fingers clutching the back of Branwen’s shirt like a lifeline. “If she ever comes near you, I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” Branwen asked with a snort. “Kill her? I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“I’d do it,” Calcifer replied, “if it was for you.”
Heat rushed into Branwen’s cheeks. He forced his face deeper into Calcifer’s chest to hide it, but Calcifer knew by the twitching of his tail tip that he was flustered. So, before his mate could tease him, he blurted out, “We should get married!”
“Wh…?” Calcifer pushed him back to hold him at arm’s length. This, of course, exposed Branwen’s beet red face, which only flustered him further. “What did you say?” Calcifer managed to wheeze. “I think I misheard you.”
“We should get married!” Branwen repeated. “This Flameforger’s, we should do it!”
For a moment, he was certain Calcifer would reject him. They had been together for two cycles and readily called one another mates, but weddings were official business. In the eyes of their Patron, marriage would bind them eternally. It was a lot to ask, perhaps too much. In fact, Calcifer deserved better. Branwen was hot-tempered, and socially inept, and pessimistic to a fault. That settled it. He would pass it off as a joke, and they would go back to their comfortable, uncomplicated mateship.
Then Calcifer broke into a tearful smile, and all of Branwen’s doubts shriveled and died.
Don’t look he told himself. Mako kept his eyes straight ahead, watching as the paved road blurred as he forces himself to stare ahead. His shoulders were hunched with his flight instincts screaming to flee and even leaning himself forward as if trying to will his old rickety truck move faster.
“Roadie! Makkers! MakoMakoMako!”
Nope. Nuh huh, he’s just imagining all this. Not real. None of this was real. Just another dream he’ll wake up from in a matter of seconds. If he doesn’t look. He can easily pass the voice off as just the wind. Yeah. The wind. Wind that eerily sounded like it was calling his name, but wind none the less.
“Pal! Mate! Come on, Mako! Don’t be like this!!”
Don’t look. Don’t look, he mentally repeated. Mako’s knuckles turn white as he vise gripping the cracked leathered steering wheel, forcing himself to not move an inch from his stiff and tense position. Mako’s large boot presses more pressure on the gas pedal.
“MAAAKKOO! PLEASE!”
Involuntary, his eyes flick to the side. Towards the scratchy wrapped voice he’d wished was the whipping and lashing wing. It was definitely *not* the wind. The demon was on all fours, sprinting along on the road’s side rails looking at him obvious hurt and and betrayal. He doesn’t why the all telling universal *magical* word was the thing the did him in. Maybe he knew in the back of his mind, getting a hellish creature like the one outside was a difficult task. Then the demon’s sadden expression dissipates and is quickly replaced with a wide bright jagged toothed and fanged smile, it had finally gotten Mako’s attention.
idk if youre still taking these but... aranged charlos?
yes of course i am still taking them anon! i don't know if you're coming from ao3 bc this is a published ongoing wip w/ 2 chapters to go. i honestly had to take a full step back from the constant fretting about finishing it, one reason being to prevent burnout and one reason being i am currently on vacation lol
it's basically about charlos getting contractually married very young and having babies (this was the idea when first developed).
another reason being that i have scrapped the 15th chapter about six times at this point, and even though i've written multiple notes for it actually writing it has been ... tough, to say the least. i will recommend, if you haven't read 'i take my whiskey (neat)', to not click under the cut!
i decided to include a bit of the epilogue instead of the 15th chapter purely bc i have written that most recently !!
-
they look at each other, his father with mild confusion and his dad with mild concern. his dad speaks first, coughing, “rafa, this is…?”
rafael springs into action. “this is ella,” he introduces as she waves hello. “she’s my, erm, my girlfriend.” he grins, hoping to earn their sympathy. “ella, these are my parents, charles and carlos,” pointing to each of them in turn. “i think my siblings are outside–”
“i’ll take you,” his father offers, still slightly confused. “we are, ah, grilling out back. do you like grill? i can show you out–” he stops, scratching the back of his neck, thinking hard. “we have invited a lot of people, but i’ll just walk with you so you don’t get lost.”
ella shoots him a panicked look before she’s shepherded nervously off to the back with his equally nervous father. his eyes follow their retreating figures, tightlipped, and his only thought is that they hadn’t been so scared of millie’s girlfriend. tearing his gaze away, his attention rests on his dad. he looks amused, fighting a smile, his arms crossed over his chest. he leans over the counter, towering over rafael from where he’s stood on the platform.
“so,” he starts. “why is this the first time i am hearing of this girlfriend?”
rafael blushes high in his face, his ears turning red. “it’s new,” he sighs, pointed. “she’s in one of my classes, in english. she’s really nice, i think you’ll really like her.”
“yeah?” he says. it’s not a question. “how long have you been, you know, together?”
“two months, but i’ve known her for longer.”
his dad nods, thoughtful. he steps off the counter, his palm cold against rafael’s back. he stands slightly taller than his dad, something he takes advantage of, pulling him into a hug, squishing him. “my baby, all grown up,” he murmurs.
“daaaaad,” he whines, nearly suffocating. “stop, i’m not a little kid–”
his dad lets go, but cradles his face between his hands, pulling at his cheeks. “you’ll always be little to me,” he says, eyes twinkling. it’s the only part of him that stands truly the same from twenty years ago, resistant to time and change. “come, let us make sure your papa has not scared ella back to new york.”
he laughs at that, a little strangled, because he thinks the opposite is also entirely possible. laura materialises when they step out, blinking owlishly up at him behind her circle frames. “i met your girlfriend,” she says, eyes narrowed. she clutches a book to her chest and rafael has to stop himself from rolling her eyes because it’s so stereotypical of laura to be studying at their family cookout. “how do you have a girlfriend?”
this time he does roll his eyes, wrangling her in for a one armed hug. “good to see you too, chiquita,” he mutters. her reply is lost in her derogatory mumbling. “where is she? ella?”
“being harassed by your brothers,” comes his dad’s reply, a note of alarm in his tone. “you go and say hi to your uncles before they keel over and die, i’ll deal with this.”
laura and rafael watch as their dad wrangles their twin brothers into obedience, apologising to an even more apologetic ella. at ten, marco and miguel are getting up to absolutely no good, and have just started to grow out of the inseparable phase. it doesn’t mean they don’t team up to cause havoc at times like this – quite the opposite by their display just now. rafael feels uneasy, sweat starting to form. he coughs, gesturing, “i should– i should go over there, right?” he asks. “that’s something i should do?”
laura eyes him with no small amount of disdain, but her expression softens when she gently pushes at his shoulder. “you’re a real idiot you know that?” are the words that come out of her mouth. “seriously, you must be so glad millie’s inheriting the company instead of you, what a disaster that would have been–”
“–yeah, yeah, i’ve got it,” he grumbles, secretly pleased.
ella doesn’t notice him coming, her shoulders tense when he gets his hands on them. he pulls her into his embrace. “hey, you,” he says, willing his voice not to shake. “you’re okay?”
she sighs, relaxing just the slightest bit. “you know, in the car i was going over everyone’s names, and what you’ve said they like,” she admits. “but there’s like… so many. i couldn’t even figure out which one of your brothers i was talking to.”
rafael snorts. he smoothes down the sleeves of her shirt, trying to be comforting. “don’t worry, i had trouble with it for years. i still do, when they’re playing tricks.”
“ah, ella, i’m sorry, i had to take this call,” his father’s voice says from behind them. he’s smiling, awkward, but he’s smiling. “hi, rafa. did you–” his face falls, he must have seen his dad berating his brothers behind them. “oh, you met the twins?”
“she did,” rafael answers for the two of them, grimacing. “they’re being, well, you know better than me. how they’ve always been.”
his father sighs, muttering, “may lord help us all until they grow up,” in spanish as he passes them by, patting rafael’s shoulder.
-
of course they had more babies. is anyone surprised?
this one is really funny bc i have 1 wip of them being the gods, and this wip of them as the children of the gods set in a percy jackson-esque universe.
i haven't worked on this fic in a while but there's a solid enough foundation i think the snippet (under the cut) will make sense!
-
In fact, he hopes he can get another kiss out of the whole encounter, but Charles is sighing, standing up and tugging on the collar of his shirt, dragging Carlos with him. “Come on,” he says airily, dusting down his shorts, and tousling his perfectly styled hair. “It’s time for lunch.” Pointing down at the camp, he uses his other hand to take Carlos’, leading him down as if he hasn’t used this path countless times.
There are jeers and whistling from some of the other campers when they emerge, but Charles doesn’t drop his hand. Rumours have flown around about the two of them for more summers than Carlos cares to count. Lando spies him from the archery range, waving wildly in greeting. Carlos doesn’t have the chance to wave back, jerked yet another way by Charles’ iron grip. “Where are we–?”
“Lunch,” is the only answer he gets.
They’re, like, not really heading to lunch though. Unless the layout of the camp has completely changed in the months Carlos has been gone, the mess hall is in the opposite direction to which they’re moving in. He tries to fall in step with Charles but he’s making it much harder than it needs to be with the length of his stride. They walk past the Zeus and Hera cabins through to the Poseidon cabin, which Charles opens harshly with his shoulder, nearly knocking the door off its hinges. “You’re stronger these days,” he tries to joke, but Charles merely shoves him in, rolling his eyes. “What–”
“Gods,” Charles complains under his breath, hardly audible over the shut of the door behind them, “why can’t you take a hint?” Carlos only has a moment to try and comprehend the situation before Charles is walking them backwards, capturing his lips in a kiss so brutal he wonders whether the goal of all this is pain or pleasure. The air in the cabin has always been slightly salty, but Charles’ sweetness almost seems to be in a battle with it. Carlos loses himself in the embrace as his back hits the wall, arms hesitantly encircling Charles’ waist as his hands make their way along his jaw to his hair.
An embarrassing noise escapes from Carlos, and he can feel Charles smile against his mouth, grip lightly tugging on Carlos’ hair in retribution. Carlos would stay here forever if he could, hiding away from his responsibilities and lost in Charles’ embrace instead. He deserves it, after the last two, three, four, five years. If it’s what Charles wants too.
Charles leans back, nibbling on his bottom lip before he lets go. He doesn’t go too far. Carlos doesn’t think he could take it if he did. His breathing is heavier than normal, which he takes as a small victory along with the redness coating his whole face, stretching down his throat and disappearing into the neckline of his shirt. But even after all that, he still looks mildly irritated.
“What hint?” he asks incredulously, brows furrowing. He’s getting increasingly tired of being left out of the loop, especially like this.
But Charles steps back for real this time, clearly wanting to use his hands in what is sure to be an argument, and Carlos feels his loss immediately. “After this winter?” he says, as if that makes anything clear. “You don’t even check to see if I’m here? If I came?”
He sounds… he sounds something close to hurt. Carlos’ frown deepens. He’s actually seriously at a loss here. Much had happened last winter, but nothing immediately comes to mind. “What?”
“You–” And, yes, here is the hand irritated hand waving, accompanied by his signature pacing. If the other campers could see him now, the senior counsellor of the Aphrodite cabin losing his shit over Carlos of all people, well, it would cause serious scandal. “You’re so annoying!” he huffs out, and Carlos blinks.
He was. Well, expecting worse. “But, why?”
Charles covers his face in what seems to be a silent scream. “If you want to be together then we have to be together,” he stresses, glaring venomously at Carlos as if he’s a piece of mould on the wall and not someone he’s proposing a real romantic relationship to. “Stupid. You’re so stupid, gods.”
“But I didn’t even do anything!”
“Exactly!” he says, and now he’s more confused than ever. “You can’t just kiss me and then not make anything, you fool.”
“Do,” he corrects distractedly, trying to process the whole conversation. He cannot quite tell if Charles is speaking, well, normally, or if his words have a sweet tinge to them, fogging up his thoughts. He blinks and then looks back up at Charles in surprise. “You want to be together? With me?”
Charles closes his eyes, counting wordlessly to himself. After a beat, he says: “I’m going to drive my knife through you.”
Carlos is sure even his ears turn red. “Oh.”
“‘Oh’,” Charles mocks, but he’s red himself, too. That’s him blushing twice in one day. A new record. (Certainly not, but, come on. Carlos has earned the right to exaggerate.)
After a few moments of silence, they both speak up at the same time.
“So–”
“You–”
Carlos scratches the back of his neck in a nervous gesture, holding out his other hand for Charles to hopefully take. Hopefully is pushing it, because his arm doesn't feel like his own, but the air tastes salty again on his tongue. “Lunch?” he asks, avoiding his eyes. They’re green in this light, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to look away if he does.
Charles clears his throat. “Okay,” he says indifferently, interlocking his fingers with Carlos’ as if that was a totally normal thing to do.
As if Carlos wasn't going to obsess over this for at least tonight.
-
honestly this fic has been kind of a headache to characterise bc half of their backstory is inapplicable due to their new parentage so. yeah. also i won't be hearing any complaints about their godly parents ESPECIALLY if its about charles (if you're thinking why not ares for carlos. you are thinking correctly)
this is probably chronologically the third part. and by probably i mean i don't know :)
part 1 here, 2 here, 3(?) here!
Charles has some doubts. Carlos is the answer.
—
Some days are good days.
Today, however, is decidedly a very shit day. In all fairness, it's another shit day in a never-ending saga of shit days. Charles wishes he could say he's surprised.
And, look, Charles knows. Of course he knows. The team had been understandably concerned after practice, worrying over him like a group of annoying mother-hens, asking him if he was sure he wanted to continue, over and over and over again.
Most annoyingly might have been Carlos, pelting reason after reason at him until Charles had nearly shouted him out of his room. Really, he hadn't meant to curse him into not being able to race, but at least then he had a reason to continue.
A little selfish, a little mean. "Ferrari needs to enter a car," he'd said.
Carlos' face had been unreadable. "Of course we do."
"Will you stay?"
"Who else will make sure the strategy doesn't fuck up your race?" he'd said jokingly, but he didn't look very pleased about it. Charles understands too much to be angry at him for it.
Realistically, they could have never gotten away with swapping out the drivers anyway. But, for a few fleeting moments inside the car on the verge of total exhaustion, he'd wished they'd found a loophole of some sorts.
How he regrets it now (not really). He's not confident he'll be able to get up ever again. He's completely drained down to his bones.
"Brought your favourite," Carlos announces, padding into the room and joining Charles on the bed, sitting cross-legged next to him, poking his side. "Come on, you need to eat."
Charles deeply inhales – the smell of the pasta carbonara, not Carlos, of course not Carlos – and decides he hasn't committed enough fuckery yet today. He eyes the box in Carlos' hand. "'S not my favourite."
Maybe it's a little mean, a little selfish for him to want Carlos' stomach to drop at least once today to Charles' fifty – but his words have his intended effect, because Carlos does, in fact, look crestfallen. "But, you said..." he falters, trailing off.
"You are my favourite," he says, trying to grin teasingly, though he's hardly sure he even has the energy left. It probably comes out as a grimace but Carlos looks at him... he looks at him as if he's the most beautiful thing in the world.
It's dangerous, the game they play, he knows. It's dangerous, the way Charles' omega soars when Carlos' eyes light up. And, yet.
Yet. They will have a baby. Charles will have a baby that looks like Carlos. If he had any doubts about it all, the time to bring it up would have been at the start of this thing, when it started two years ago. It would have been then.
The time isn't now, when Carlos' fingers are twisting themselves in Charles' hair, petting him in a way Charles has a hard time letting even his mother do. It isn't now, Carlos dragging him into his lap and feeding him slowly, free hand inching up his shirt to trace comforting circles on his back.
It isn't now, Carlos whispering "Want to nest?" into his neck, and it slowly dawns on him that maybe they're both needing comfort and Charles hasn't nested in months and never with someone else outside of his heats, but Carlos is asking.
"No," Charles replies, and just like that, his fingers start to itch with the urge– the urge to build a nest and curl up in it, and worm his not-quite-boyfriend into cuddling him in it, the urge to do all of the stupidly domestic things Charles has sworn he hates, has sworn he would never do. Especially not with Carlos.
Carlos is asking, and Charles has never wanted like this.
The urge itches, like a rash Charles just can't seem to stop scratching at, despite his fingers being perfectly still. He's sure if he closes his eyes again he could paint a very pretty, very tempting picture. Carlos looks at him knowingly, and, pathetically, it's all it takes for Charles' normally iron-strong resolve to crumble. "No, sure," he amends, his voice on the edge of pleading.
"You have an appointment in two days," Carlos says later that night, a note of regret in his voice. "I have to be in Madrid."
Charles' nose scrunches in distaste. He doesn't like going to his appointments in general, let alone the ones when Carlos can't come, but it's important to know the baby's health or something. "Maybe it died after the race, and I don't need to go," he suggests. "I know I almost did."
Carlos' fingers still in his hair. "Don't say things like that," he says tensely. "It's not a joke."
"Bad things happen to me."
"The baby isn't a bad thing."
"Of course not," Charles mutters, but he feels uneasy, too. The miscarriage scare a few weeks ago hadn't exactly provided comfort to his doubts. The fact that he'd never wanted a baby before Carlos hadn't helped either.
But, before Carlos is key. Because Charles does want a baby now, with Carlos. He wants their baby. And maybe he's a little scared as to how much he wants their baby.
(How much he wants Carlos.)
Charles feels his face get hot, and reminds himself over and over again it's just the pregnancy, it's just the race, it's just the damn baby.
Tentatively, he covers Carlos' hand with his, guiding it lightly to his stomach. Carlos takes the hint, intertwining their hands and gently caressing the skin of his belly. Charles' whole body starts to relax, their bubble of safe away from the rest of the world.
Two days later, Charles gets the confirmation that the baby is, in fact, not dead. It's healthy. Healthier than most. "Little baby," Carlos murmurs over the phone, far, too far, sounding fond. "Our little baby."
Charles' omega sings a happy song, and if he was far along enough for the baby to be kicking he's sure he or she would have. Like parent, like baby, he thinks faintly, closing his eyes and imagining Carlos beside him.
Carlos has an accident. Charles almost has one, too.
—
Oh Carlos is so dead.
Well. Charles hopes he already isn't already. It wouldn't work very well for his revenge agenda. He had a good race himself – great, really. At least until it was red-flagged because Carlos had crashed on the inside of Turn 9. It didn't bother Charles at first, though a twinge of worry had snuck through when the yellow flag went down and the red flag had gone up.
No, he'd just rolled his eyes and asked Xavi to keep him updated. Xavi didn't, at all, so when he jumped out of the car and asked for Carlos and nobody gave him Carlos, he thinks he had a pretty standard reaction.
Really, they should be happy he didn't stomp his feet and throw a tantrum. Carlos was – well. Carlos was. He was a lot of things. He is a lot of things. Charles frowns. And asks for Carlos again.
"Down in medical," a newer, recent hire tells him. Clearly no one told him not to listen to the drivers. Good for Charles, anyway. "They're making sure he's properly okay. He was pretty banged up."
Okay, now might be time to be a little worried. "What?" he demands. "Why did you not tell me this before?"
Charles isn't as friendly with the engineers as Carlos is. He likes to think he's a nice person. He's certainly had his moments, but everyone has. Nobody really questions him at Ferrari – nobody really questions him at all, really, except Carlos.
Carlos is always quick to, infuriatingly, talk him back down to Earth. So. He really can't afford for anything to happen to Carlos.
They don't let him go, though. Fred tells him to stay in the garage, warning him not to leave, and so Charles stays put like a prize pony, waiting for the debris to be cleared and the track to be deemed safe. He's distracted and stressed and everyone knows it.
The race is uneventful. He crosses the line in third, right where he'd started. The podium celebration is quiet – there's still not much word on Carlos. So, naturally, it's the first thing he does.
They part for him, like a sea. The reporters stay away from him, the drivers stay away from him. Tomorrow, or maybe even this evening, they will spin a story about how Charles hates Carlos for possibly ruining his race and Ferrari simply cannot handle the petty teammate drama.
Carlos cares about all that much more than Charles does, but Charles is always the one who ends up defending them. He argues with the nurse for a minute or two, increasing in volume. "I need to see him!" he shouts, unsure of why he's being so adamant. Perhaps he's a little bit more worried for Carlos than he wants to admit.
Andrea materialises at his side. "Charles," he says very quietly, hand on his arm. He pulls him to the side, and the nurse looks considerably relieved, breathing in big gulps of air. His scent must be worse than he realises. "Charles, did you get darker fireproofs this weekend?"
"What? No, of course not."
"Then tell me..." Andrea looks worried, properly worried. "Tell me that's not blood on your thighs."
"What?" He glances down and it's like– it's like looking at it acknowledges the pain he's in– the pain he's been in. "Fuck, what the fuck?"
"You need to see medical, too–"
Charles tries to shrug him off, vision blurring. "No– no, I'm fine– I need to– Carlos–"
Andrea fights him, and it's easy, too, given the cramps in his stomach. Fuck, this really can't be happening. "Let medical give you the OK," he says sternly, but there's concern in there, too. "You can see Carlos after."
Charles isn't an idiot. They've been having sex – lots of it, and the intention had been pretty clear. Pregnancy isn't very encouraged in athletes, much less male omega athletes. The stress from the race probably didn't help. He should have expected the miscarriage, really.
Tears sting in his eyes. He's not the most optimistic person, and he would have expected this, if he knew at all. "Please," he says, hoarse. "Let me see him first."
The thing is – in Ferrari, everyone is soft for Charles, and Andrea is no better. Irritated, he agrees, making Charles vow he'll get himself checked out. The nurse who had been pretending not to eavesdrop wordlessly guides him to the room he's been looking for.
"Idiot," is the first thing he says, so so so relieved. There's an IV in Carlos' arm but he's awake and safe. "Idiot, idiot, idiot."
Carlos laughs. Charles feels drunk on the sound of it. "Happy to see you too. I lost the wheel. How was the race?"
Charles climbs into the bed, trying very hard not to wince. Carlos notices and grills him until he pouts, but they talk. They talk and Charles pours his heart out and kisses Carlos until he forgets his own name (it might be the concussion) and then very quietly tells him he might have had a miscarriage.
Not the best way to go about it, but Carlos holds his hand through the checkup two hours later and they tell him no miscarriage, just some common bleeding. The baby is fine. He's almost two months along. He's due in late March. Carlos cries. Charles might have too.
"Wow," Carlos whispers after the tech wipes the gel off, the palm of his hand coming to rest on Charles' belly, slightly squishier than normal. The tech says something about a printout. "There's our baby in there. Our tiny baby."
Then the irrationality hits him and he whacks him with a pillow. He's going to hate being pregnant, how could he–
